Sleek and Wild

Monday Massacres: Conception

// August 30th, 2010 // 7 Comments » // Monday Massacres...Bollocks

This glorious stuff, it is brought to you by:

(tututulu tutu tuuutuuuuu…..)(Trumpets going off)

We support Sleek. He is our bwoy. In fact, we are in deals with him to have this movie script he has displayed here for free turned into a movie. Watch dis, one time. Over to you home bwoy, Sleek.

First off, BHH rocked. Massive rockery. Baz, the insidious being, didn’t show. He said that he’s on hunger strike till the people of Cambodia get NTV. Noble Baz. But the whole world was there. And (drum roll) even Angie Kintu. She drove straight from Jinja to BHH. Her account of the story included stopping over at a hospital to deliver a baby…but I didn’t believe her. Who delivers a baby and goes for BHH? No even Britney can pull that one off. Ok, I take that back. Twas nice meeting you Angella. Moving swiftly on. Moving on swiftly. As the 20^th Century Fox guys above already told you, they approached me to write a script for them. Here goes…come on, don’t be shy, tell them how awesome it is after ya? Ok.

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(credits rolling)

Written by: Sleek, also Wild contributed

Produced by: Competent producers

Edited by: Sleek

Starring: Heffner, Hugh

Co-starring: Amazon virgin

(more credits)

Movie name: CONCEPTION

(more credits)

####

Hugh wakes up with a start. “Oh crap, it was just another one of those dreams. A dream within a dream. But maybe these dreams are telling me something. Oh well…”

He reaches over and taps one of the arms next to him… “Morning sunshine…”

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In  a remote place in the Amazon, the Igoo people start their day off long before the sun comes up. They are a very small tribe, the Igoo. They are a place far from civilization, away from the Facebook wench and the only tweeting they know is of actual mating birds. Speaking of mating, the Igoo have a problem. With all the success they have had in the past under their recently deceased leader Bobo, they are now fast approaching extinction. The tribe now consists of 15 belles and 5 boys. And the late Bobos wife. Oddly enough, the tribe has never been exposed to TV so they all don’t know what to do with their loins. All but the late Bobo that is. See Bobo, he was travelled. And he’d watched several things on TV, some too darry for the writer of this script to put here. So when he returned home, he practiced with his wife and soon they were with child. And more child. And even more child. But with his passing, only boys remained on the village, boys barely 3 years old. And Bobos wife, she didn’t know what to do, how to keep the tribe going if she was stuck with mere boys…what to do? What to do?

If only she could propagate the race…the tribe…all this pressure was too much for her….and everyday they all looked at her…expecting an answer…where was Hugh when she needed him? (The late Bobo had shown her a colorful book with many things in it. He said it was written by Heffner, Hugh. Great Bobo, he said that if he ever passed on, Heffner, Hugh would be the answer. The one to lead the Igoo out of the Amazon.)

Super Hugh? Where was he? Where? Where?

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(dudu…dudu…dudu..)(pounding headache)

“Heff, are you ok?,” she asked, while walking towards the bath-robed Hugh

“I’m fine Sharyce. Oh, it’s you Charvaan. My bad. I’m ok. It’s just that I keep hearing voices in my head, it’s like they are telling me to…aarrggh”(he falls to one knee)

“There they go again. All speaking at the same time.”

“I’m outta here. This is not what I signed up for.” Shontal turns to leave.

“I can hear them. I can. They are telling me to….hell no, I ain’t doing that. Hell no. Amazon? Hell no”

####

Due to copyright issues, that’s all that can be shared for now. But sneak preview: Hugh does go to the Amazon. Yes, he does. Does he save the Igoo? Was the movie called ‘Conception’ for nothing? Are there some hot, steamy scenes involving Heffner, Hugh and Bobo’s wife? Are there other hot, steamy scenes involving him and the 15 Igoo belles? All at once? One at a time? Two maybe? Five? Does he make it out alive? Do they turn out to be cannibals? How did Bobo die? Too many questions, too many questions…when the Fox guys give head. A go ahead, we shall publish the rest. Word!

Monday Massacres: Doctoring

// August 9th, 2010 // 17 Comments » // Monday Massacres...Bollocks

Today’s stuff is brought to you by:

Nike. Just do it. All of it. Come on, don’t hold back. Do it. Now. Now onto the massacares. Good reading.

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I’m not feeling dandy today. My usual walking-around-town-skipping-a-rope-and-singing-pretty-songs routine just isn’t coming naturally. I think I’m coming down with something. I walk to a nearby hospital. Fifteen minutes pass and I’m still waiting on them. Do they want me to type a complete post before they actually see…ah, there she is. The Doctor. Now why did I expect a man? Yes, madam…

(Shuffle shuffle as she leads me into a private room to discuss private things)

(In hushed tones…private things…private things…Yes, I do that at least once a week when I find someone willing…more private things… Private thin…oh yes, I last did that this morning, twice…she’s amazed. We high five)

She then directs me to a lab. I get there and there’s a man. And he pricks me. (That’s for you Normzo). And I get up and I head back to the waiting room.

My extensive interaction with Dr. Gregory House (Of that super dooper series) has led my medical gonad to grow. I’m told there are no such things as medical brains, only gonads, true story. So, after much soul-searching, I present possible causes of my ill condition:

Possible infection one:

I could be the temporary host for LINKTUS, a semi intelligent life-form from a long-deserted galaxy come to take over all the female brains on earth. From what I read, LINKTUS has a penchant for women and also for dogs. We are not sure ‘why dogs’ but Professor Klang, an insanely learned fellow, believes that the life-form wants women…to eat them. Apparently, all the magazines that get to his planet show lovely fleshy mammals suitable for a feast. I guess the jokes on him.

Possible infection two:

Brown bread disease. I tell you, it was a normal day. I woke up and I took a gulp of the fresh air that was all around me. I looked next to me. A SHE. I considered saying hi. Then I stopped considering. I walked out and went to the kitchen. There, atop the small-fridge-that-doubles-as-a-table-and-as-’other’-things-sometimes sat what looked like bread. My brain broke into a war.

Einstein side: It looks, feels and probably tastes like bread. Eat it, you’ll be fine

Wilde side: Dude, if that’s bread then it was probably made with livestock in mind. Don’t go anywhere within 5 meters of that thing, it’s probably emitting invisible, radioactive badness right now.

Einstein side: Do you want to live your life in fear? Take my word for it, your housemate bought that bread. It’s probably fine. See, it’s even bitten. Someone else ate a bit of it. No one’s dead.

So I fell for that story. And I took some bites. And now I’m in hospital.

Possible infection three:

I have a multiple-heart-disorder. See, my heart has multiple personalities. In the left ventricle (if I get too technical for you Nev, please skip this part), yes in the left ventricle lies the Mother Theresa heart. Very kind. Very giving. In the right ventricle lies the heart of a knight. I’m not sure which one but my guess is King Arthur. So brave. So valiant. Noble. In the right auricle, I have a Superman heart. Always out to rescue someone. Beating up bad guys. I’ve writ about this heart before. And the left auricle, that one is empty. It is where love, lust and all those things are stored temporarily on their way out of the system. Now, so why am I sick you ask? Well, the hearts are at war. A battle is on to decide which heart my system is going to use for the rest of my life. GULP! For the rest of my life? Yes, for the rest of my life.

So, after my ordeal, I’ll either become overly kind and giving (bless you Mother Theresa), or very brave and gallant, walking around town swinging my sword for all to see (King Arthur, pronounced with a heavy ‘r’), or I’ll spend the rest of my days saving damsels in distress and never getting any (Superman, the man who never saves guys. What’s with that? Sexist punk).

There is also the remote possibility that the empty auricle would take over. My guess is I’d become very very loving, like those guys in the French movies. I’d kneel at ladies’ feet and say things like, “Por favor mademoiselle, tu es tres magnifique. Couchez avec moi maintenant”. And I’d walk around with a flower in my back pocket, just in case I need to fall at someone’s feet in the park. And whisper sweet things.

Possible infection four:

There is the rather remote possibility that I have malaria. Or some such disease that attacks the innocent writer in the third world. There I was living my life, giving to society, taking from society, and then this happened.

Monday Massacres: Dutty love

// August 2nd, 2010 // 6 Comments » // Monday Massacres...Bollocks

These writings are proudly brought to you by:

We love it here. Oso you you better.

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We’ve heard this phrase over and over again. In songs. Many songs actually. Dutty love. And like the faithful, we sing along. I took time off to do some heavy investigations into the meaning of this phrase ‘dutty love’.

To aid my investigations, I had to choose between Sean Paul and Sean Kingston, both frequent users of the phrase. Not a hard choice actually.

Dutty love is when brave, brawny, sweaty fighter shoots an entire village in his quest to rescue damsel. He shoots. Sweats. Reloads. Shoots. Says some heavy fighter words. Like “I kill you. Really, I kill you”. And then he runs off doing even more shooting. Then he finally gets to the leader of the weasels who have his damsel captive. He aims to fire, and the gun jams. The beefy leader also aims a gun at him and it too jams. So they drop the guns. And they stare each other deep in the eye ball. Eye balls lock. Time stands still. The birds stop chirping. Other birds stop making out. Dry leaves drop to the ground.

Our hero: “Give me the girl and all this will go away. No one else has to get hurt”

Leader of pack that has girl captive: (He doesn’t have too big a vocabulary) muhahahahahaha

Our Hero: I said give me the girl and I won’t hurt any of you

Leader of the pack that has the girl captive: I said muhahahaahah

Our hero moves menacingly towards the leader. By now a small crowd of villagers has started to gather, to see the faceoff. These are the villagers that our hero didn’t kill during his wild gun-totting on his way to meet the leader in this standoff they are in now.

(Side Poll: Don’t you find it odd that villagers would go out of their way to go watch a fight between the two grown men in our story? Don’t they have anything better to do with their time? See, Big Brother All Stars does have some upsides…if those villagers had it, they wouldn’t even give this face-off any attention. Only the village livestock would be witness. The happy villagers would be glued to their TV sets, on Big Brother, watching how grown men and women go through the stages of courting, listening to the life-changing things that these people pass onto us, seeing first hand what dreadlocks can do for a guy, learning how useful it is to be overly active and talkative, even when you don’t really have much to say. Just say ‘I do not have much to say. But…’ and then launch a monologue. Though you wouldn’t call it a monologue; that word means bad manners in Uganda. Ok, so watch Big Brother ya? Ok)

Our hero keeps moving menacingly towards the leader. He gets to him and the fight that we’ve all been waiting for throughout this post begins. They fight. And they fight. Punch. Blow. Kick. Lost tooth (it flies very very slowly out of the mouth of the leader, he makes an arghh sound, and we see some small drops of blood fly in slow motion after the tooth. They both land at about the same time some distance off. The camera focuses on them for a few minutes then we get back to the fighters). More punches. Out of nowhere, a round kick. Leader is down. Hero is standing over him.

“Where is she? Where is she?” he screams

“I don’t know”

Hero raises his hand

“Ok ok ok. I’ll tell you. She’s in the room at the back.”

Hero punches him. It’s lights out. Hero walks off to find the room at the back. The villagers clear his path. He walks. Kicks the door open. Rushes towards the room at the back. He is both excited and apprehensive; will she still love him in this state? He kicks open the door of the room at the back. And there she is doing bad manners with someone else. That’s dutty love.

As told by Sean Paul

Monday Massacres: HeroMan

// July 19th, 2010 // 9 Comments » // Monday Massacres...Bollocks

It’s been a while since we run these massacres. So understandably, prospective sponsors were queasy. They said that they could not trust the brand. What’s there not to trust? WHAT’S THERE NOT TO TRUST EH!!!???? Ok, let’s breathe in, breathe out…think pretty thoughts, pretty thoughts. Presenting the massacres…I have a gut feeling the sponsors will be queuing up next week.

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It is no secret that we live in hard times. Very hard times. Ladies’ bags are getting stolen. Men are sending money to their offshore accounts, money meant for drugs for the sick and needy. Other people are going years without getting any. Hard times, my friend, very hard times. We need a hero. Someone who can lift us out of this…this despicable state of affairs.

Someone who’ll champion the cause of the weak,
speak up for the meek,
and do it every week,
justice he will seek,
no, he’s not a dick,
not even a prick,
he, he is Sleek.
With a kick and a flick,
He’ll pounce on them robbers, the pricks,
Yes, they’ll have sticks,
But Sleek, he’s unique,
Taekwondo and jujitsu make him tick,
We need a hero, we have Sleek.

With an intro like that it’s hard not to trip. But back to our story. Hard times, yes, very hard times. But Sleek has this covered.

CASE ONE:

(kock kock kock kack kock kack)(High heels hitting the tarmac as unidentified SHE walks down a lonely alley in Buziga, having left work late from taking an extra cup of tea to her boss.)

(kock kock kock kack kock kack) (kamppphhh)(She breaks her stride. An unidentified man with bloodshot eyes has  stepped into her path, a few meters away)

HE: Nze tegumanyi luzungu naye ‘Hand over zat handbag and no one gets hurt’. (Translation: translator unavailable right now. Apologies)

SHE: (shrill scream) (breaks into her mother tongue) Ai bambe, kjnivcreuoyuwyedeouweyofcitfouwdyootedouwyywevfdiyvuycwiyfiwrv, where is Sleek when we need him?

(Flash of light, barefoot man grimaces, punches, kicks, more punches, a scream, then calm. Barefoot man is bundled up, struggling to break free.)

Barefoot man: ‘Nze mwana I’ll get you Sleek, if it’s the last thing I do. Naro!‘

(Sleek and the previously so-scared-I’m-going-to-piss-my-pants lady walk off hand-in-hand. To her place of residence. She lives alone. They proceed to have a discussion on possible ways of empowering lady to defend herself in such situations. Then they tell me not to write anything more about them.)

CASE TWO:

Burly HE is seated in his office. Sipping cold coffee. Eating a mandazi. He is waiting for the money. It was supposed to come in the previous day but word has it DONOR had some other stuff to take care of. But today is the day. The money, it is coming.

(Knock knock)

Ah, that must be them. Come in.

Tea girl walks in. ‘You aren’t done with the tea? And you owe me for that mandazi…what’s with your ilk and procrastination?’ (She walks out, semi-slams the door)

(Tension builds…tension builds…more tension)

(Another knock)

Ah, it must be them. The money, it is here.

They walk in, three of them. DONOR, and two goons in shades and body-hugging black suits. And white sneakers. The goons stand on either side of DONOR. He is clad in a red and black t-shirt, brown corduroys and mauve sneakers. He hands over the sack of money and insists on a signature. Burly HE signs. They head for the door. DONOR turns just before the door is shut behind him, “Now make sure all those with Malaria actually get drugs bought with this money.”

Burly HE nods. They leave. Unable to contain his excitement, he starts to stash some of the bills into his socks, shoes, underwear….

(Flash of light, scuffle, kicks, punches, burly HE is now bound, struggling.)

Sleek: Thought you could get away with eating our money eh? Eh? Take him away boys…

Monday Massacres: Nelly Dilemma

// May 17th, 2010 // 4 Comments » // Monday Massacres...Bollocks

This beauriful stuff is brought to you by the Hip-hop community:

All the popping, and locking and thingsYouShouldntTryAtHome and thingsYouShouldTryInTheBedroom, we bring you all that. Even hard lyrics. Even soft ones(Will Smith rap). Even scary ones(Rick Ross showing face). We bring you all that. Now we bring you some prose. Just because we can. Peace. Out. Peace. In.

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Why do people let Nelly anywhere near a recording studio? Where’s the logic in that? I mean, it’s bad enough that they let him even sniff the air outside the studio…but then as if that’s not scary enough, they watch him stop sniffing the air, sniff himself for about ten minutes, hold his gonads and then walk towards the studio door…any alarms going off? Red-alert yet? No? Nothing. And then the guard at the studio door hits pause on an Eminem track he’s listening to on his I-pad, looks up, sees Nelly limping towards the door, a ‘fake voice approaching’ look written all-over his face…Nelly even brushes last night’s dinner off the front of his t-shirt, just in case it’s obscuring the case-sensitive words ‘FAKE FAKE guy’ emblazoned on his chest…guard squints and reads the message, takes it in, stands up to stop the fake guy from soiling the studio’s path any further…and just when he reaches for his hand grenade, he sees P-Dildo trying to sneak into through the back door disguised as a woman…poor guard is distracted. What the hell? He moves  laser fast and grabs Dildo by the kahunas and throws him out…(P Dildo goes on to sing a song using some improvised stuff and somehow some loonies worldwide get down to it…but that’s a story you’d undress in protest at hearing..so i’ll write it strictly for one person’s eyes…one gal. At a time. You can borrow it when i’m done. The story. Yes, yes, the story, not the girl.) Yes, P Dildo drops remix after remix, and just to make sure we don’t get it twisted, he always  announces ‘This is the remix’. Why thank you Diddy, ahem, we didn’t know that…

So guard distracted, Nelly gets past the door and into the recording studio…a sudden dark descends over Eastern Uganda, but no one worldwide makes the connection…Nelly-in-recording-studio=darkness-in-Eastern-Uganda. That goon’s making locals suffer…he looks around, pockets the face towels he finds lying on the floor, probably discarded by real musicians, like Lauryn Hill, after a long, intensive, draining songing session…Yes, songing…the word singing has been defiled by people like Nelly so real songers now have to use their own word…some examples maybe? Songer: India Arie. Singer: P Dandy. Songer: A Keys. Singer: T-Pain. Songer: Common. Singer: Chamellionare. Songer: Floetry. Singer: Sean Kingston.

So Nelly, pulling his cap low to hide his face, proceeds to the now-abandoned microphone…producer sees weak chap go to mic, but assumes that it’s a song about charity so he let’s it pass. He reaches for his water and takes several sips to steady his heart when the guy starts to sing. Shrill. Uncordinated. Shallow lyrics. Wannabe. FAKE. Producer goes for potty break. Producer’s dumb assistant enters, gets CD and sends to radio station with instructions, ‘Play this. It’s by homeless klut, play once only’. And they play once only…and fellow kluts worldwide love the ‘song’ and request for more…and ageing producer has no choice but to invite Nelly to sing. You brought this on us, you Nelly lover you…go to sleep knowing that.

Monday Massacres: Down and Darry

// April 12th, 2010 // 7 Comments » // Monday Massacres...Bollocks

These massacres today are brought to you entirely by my brain. No sponsor. Let’s just say things have been very involving lately. All prospective sponsors this time round wanted me to do thangs for them. But I turned them down. I think next time I’ll give in.  Good reading..lovely week.

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Weenies!

Yes sir!

Today, you learn to play the men’s game!

Yes sir!

Many of you have been doing ballet, wearing pink, reading mills and boon and watching movies with Lindsay Lohan in them…

(Blank stares)

Today, today you get liberated. Today I break your chains…the chains that have you bound, holding you back from crossing that thick line to manhood. Today, you learn to play rugby.

(Wild cheers…)

Today, I pass on knowledge I have gathered from painful years of experience. Aching muscles, broken limbs, twisted jaws, insomnia, delusion, twisted vision, misplaced teeth…that’s the life all my opponents have gotten used to. Weenies, the game has been a breeze for me…

(Excited murmurs at hearing about my brilliance)

Now, the first thing you’ll ever need to learn on pitch…learn how to pass the ball. When you see grit teeth, a heated animal charging at you like you said something unflattering about his mother…yes, Pass The Ball (PTB). Preferably to someone bigger than you…and cheer as he rams into the animal. Do not cheer if he gets a concussion. Say the appropriate ‘Hey Fatso, I am going to tear you apart!’ to the animal responsible for the concussion. And no, it’s not your fault that your team mate got hit real bad, he coulda passed the ball too you know. Why was he feeling a superman eh? Running into animals like that…and for the rest of the game, avoid making eye contact with the animal. He may send book you a bed and a feeding tube in the hospital.

Never pause in a game; you’ll only draw attention to yourself and the ball would be passed to you…not nice. Stay in motion, keep shouting, preferably some incoherent stuff…

Always look out for the smallest/slowest/weakest guy on pitch. These are always there, unless you are playing against the Springboks. If you do not know who the Springboks are, please forget all the other beautiful knowledge I have passed on, stand up and leave this place. Make sure the door does not hit you on your way out. Actually, I hope it does…(A number of weenies shuffle out)

Yes, on identifying the weakest link in the other team, get the ball, charge at him with the vengeance of three rabid dogs (yes, three…any more would be too many) and make sure you knock him down, hard. When done, dust yourself off and do rule one, Pass The Ball.

Now, some wise words on how to tackle. As evil as the word sounds, tackling is an art form in the league of wine-tasting. It requires skill, great timing, huge arms, lotsa brawn, and a gallant cry that is let out when the tackle is done…I do not have any of these things, save for a magnificent gallant cry. So, how do I do it? Weenies, listen coz I’ll only say this great stuff once…

(weenies lean in to listen)

Now your brawny buddy will teach you how to look out for that split-second when your opponent’s legs are next to each other, and dive for them right then so as to take the goon down. Me, your brainy buddy, I’ll tell you this: wait till your opponent has JUST passed you, and then dive. Do a magnificent dive, and mid-air, spin, slow-down, turn a bit, do those slow-motion things that camera tricks do, and then let out your gallant cry just before you hit the ground. When you finally stand up, stamp the ground in anger and let everyone know how that guy survived.

Weenies, that concludes your Rugby 101 short course. There’s an appendix here about what to do when you are almost making a try, but I doubt you guys will need that. I see your blank looks…well, technically, a try is to rugby what a goal is to football. Though in rugby, when a try is scored, there’s no unruly jumping, throwing shirts in the air, grown men hugging and smiling effusively like toddlers in a candy store…no, here we just shake hands as team-mates and say ‘Nice try’, the irony of the statement notwithstanding.   In the very strange event that you make a try, stay calm, say thanks to your team-mates and if there’s a camera crew around, make it a point to dedicate the try to someone. ‘I dedicate this try to all my O.G’s who knew me when I was broke. Much love. Beer on me, this Saturday, Nalongo has a drink-up.’

Monday Massacres: Black Monday

// March 29th, 2010 // 26 Comments » // Monday Massacres...Bollocks

This stuff, it is brought to you by:

Small and lethal, this baby has been known to leave havoc in its wake…and Normzo uses it to brush his teeth. And also Carsozy uses it as mint. And Streetsider has never even tasted it. And Payo ‘gears up’ with it…Gikobwa doesn’t know what she’s missing. Today’s massacres were penned by Safyre….awesomeness just. Two years, 5 days after he said he’d pen them, he did. Take it away Safyre.

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There’s a lady who works in an office next to ours. I see her every day on my way in. I look at her, she hears footsteps and looks up, at me. I look away and keep moving till I reach our office.

Sometimes I meet her at the stage when I’ve retired for the day. I manage to cough up a greeting. She mutters a response. I’m almost sure she’s not quite fond of me.

Anyway, of late I’d developed a string of ‘reasons’ that would get me to walk into her office just to look at her. The one that has succeeded the most is going over there to ask for a key. What the key does is not important to the story, but it’s a pretty useful key!

I went there a few times, when her boss was around, so I cracked my jokes with him instead. I think they are prohibited from laughing when the boss is around. A series of attempts later yielded a much desired result. I went there after hours and she was there. I was shocked to learn that the office actually had 3 ladies, instead of the two I normally see. And the third was the fairest of them all!

Anyway, I was not to deviate from the original plan just yet, so I asked for that key. She pointed at where it was, implying that I should get it for myself. I obliged. I turned heel and stormed out. A man with a purpose. I returned shortly after, armed with the key to inevitable destiny. What followed was as shocking as it was silly. I asked her if they had another key that opens the same door.

They looked at me with faces showing surprise and disbelief. I repeated my question. The fair one asked me whether the key worked or not. I said that it did, though I believed there was another key, since it’s not the one I’d used the last time I was there. By this time, ‘my lady’ was laughing uncontrollably.

Then Ms Fairest spoke up. “What’s with all the questions?” That’s when I noticed her. I stammered the question again. This time they could not hold back their laughter. I smiled, bowed gracefully, and promised that next time, I’ll not hold back. It was more of a threat than a promise. I said we’ll continue the debate the next day. As I was approaching our office, I overheard them talking about my ‘silliness.’ At least I made an impression.

Now off to undo the damages my rep could have sustained.

Monday Massacres: I wear my sunglasses at night

// March 15th, 2010 // 11 Comments » // Monday Massacres...Bollocks

This stuff is brought to you by:

We mean bidness. No jokes. We shall reel you in. Take it away now Sleek.
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I pull up to the traffic lights. The heat is sweltering, I can almost hear the rays screaming “Die nigger, die!”.  THE URGE hits me. I have to go. Now. I have to go now. I look up at the lights. Taking their time. It’s Uganda after all, everything takes its time. Not me…I live my life in the fast lane; quick look left, all clear, quick look right, strange-looking car leisurely making its way to the junction. I step on it…the tyres make that screeching sound as they hug the ground…they make another screeching sound as friction bites their  ass. Poor tyres.

It takes a while for things to register for the police man. One second he’s thinking about donuts and g-nuts (ya, his mind rhymes like that..donuts, gnuts…), next he’s seeing ‘zat car’ zooming away.

“Stop…(Jog.jog)..stop!…I sed stooopp!!(jog.pant.jog)” (Reaching for walkie-talkie)

“Elo dispatch. Elo! We have a runner. We finally have a runner. Errant driver making his way east. Fast.”

(Brain processing what else to say. Drawing blanks. Jumps onto police motor bike. Hesitates. Is the clutch this one, to the left or is it the other one? Scratch that…we have a runner to grab. Kick-starts the thing)

(Revs the bike. Revs the bike. Stops and pulls out his phone. ‘Baby, afande here. I’ll be late for lunch, got a runner to run-down. Hehe, pun intended’. Text sent.)

(Pulls on gloves. Tightens his shoe laces. Smears some black goo on his left cheek. Nigger, you going down. Revs the bike and zooms off to catch ‘ze errant driver’)

I see him first as a distant speck of individual tottering on motor bike. Then he draws nearer and I see it’s the popo I left at the traffic lights.

He is onto me.  Popo’s chasing me…screaming “Elo nigger…Elo u! Elo, stop innadiname of da low”. He has a steady rhythm; scream, totter on bike, struggle to steady it, almost fall, scream again. “Elo…you know dat if I get you…(cough. Prolly swallowed a couple of insects). Elo I yamu realle taking you down!”

I see him struggle to steady himself as he makes all attempts at speaking into his walkie-talkie while riding.

“Ya. Yes. The runner’s now next to Shoprite. Fellow long arms of the law, I beseech you to get his ass. Get his ass. He is now…he is…(bike veers dangerously off-course)…afande, lemme call you back.”

He concentrates and again starts to gain on me. Then life starts to get interesting. First I notice the chopper overhead. And then out of nowhere, a dozen or so popo cars stream in from all directions. Good thing I have this ‘driving like a maniac’ thing down to an art. Let’s get this party popping..or poppoing. I put some weight on the gas. The popos seem to be singing in a chorus, “Elo wiya gonna get you”. I reach into my dashboard. Three sachets of local spirit. I throw them out the window, towards the police cars gaining on me the most. They are delighted at their new acquisition. They pull over and indulge.

(sigh)…Three down, about nine to go.

I turn on the radio. “This is coming to you live from up-town Kampala where the police are in a nail-biting car chase with what seems to be a gainfully-employed street Adonis. We are following…”

I change channel.

“Elo, we are making an appeal…please slow down. You are tiring our officers. We need them to be productive in the evening.(wink wink). Please stop.”

Monday Massacres:BHH rally

// March 1st, 2010 // 13 Comments » // Monday Massacres...Bollocks

This good stuff is brought to you by:

To good times…

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The Mercedes slowed to a stop. The paparazzi, like starved flies descending on poop, attacked the car from all directions. Some carrying spears. Actually one carrying a spear. The beefy bodyguards sprang into action, swatting the flies outta the way. And pushing some paparazzi outta the way too. When some semblance of sanity had been restored outside the car, HE stepped out. As is instructed in the car manual, HE first put one foot out, waited for a reaction from the assembled crowd; then HE put out the other foot. Satisfied with the slight aaaaahhh from the gathered crowd, HE stepped out fully. Blue-striped shirt, black slacks and a raised eyebrow. Flash. Click. Flash. Time for his company to step out…the siren took HER time to get to the door (Mercedes can be really long) and when SHE finally did, SHE almost tripped…almost. HE stepped in and steadied HER step. Flash. Click. Flash.

Mateos was already an anthill of activity. Erique, B2b, Streetsyder, The Edge, Oli?, Normzo, Jny23 n Naome, Carsozy, Lulu, Safyre constituted the welcoming committee. They were, as welcoming committees usually are, seated, slowly getting drunk (except Normzo, nooo Sir! He likes these things faster faster), and making light (and in a secluded corner) heavy conversation.

Usually the most discreet creature (having studied the ways of the Amazon Ooga Agaa people), HE glided into their company unnoticed and soon started making animated contributions to the ‘Is Stewie a god’ conversation? SHE sashayed in 2 seconds behind HIM. Pause.

“I like Stewie. He always has the most profound punch lines,” Normzo

“But unlike you Normzo, for me I just like stew in any form. Oba Chicken stew. Oba beef stew. Atte there’s this place I went to which had chickenut stew, a mixture of chicken and g-nuts”. Streetsider

“Bati you Streetsider, that Chickenut stew turned out to be really nice. Though for me I prefer gonja with vegetable stew. Diet issues,” Erique.

Blank stares. Gulp. The music stops. DJ fumbles to play number 3, lest people start to hear each others’ thoughts. HE saw a great opportunity to change topic.

“What would it be like to have Stewie for president? For example, there’s this matter of Sleek for blogger president…”

“Do you know that that Sleek guy was once a president those days. Hehe, you play play with that guy. Those those days he wasn’t like you see him now” Bystander paid to say that exact statement. With better grammar but it’d have to do. The deal was he walks off after. But he lingered, prolly trying to squeeze for more dollars.

HIM, grabbing the ball and running with it, “Yes, that guy would actually handle. Do you know what the first point on his manifesto says? It says that if voted into power, he’d allow bloggers to write posts…(pregnant pause)…WITH THEIR MINDS! Yes, the thing bees typed out as you think it. Of course this facility would come with a porn-filter to help guys so that certain bits of their thoughts don’t make it onto paper. Otherwise posts would be…anyway, the porn-filter would also be given to Gikobwa, for free. And also Petesmama. “

SHE “Oso me can I get that filter?”

HE: I don’t see why not. Your thoughts seem to need it. (Feeling HE’D talked too much, makes a move to change topic, again)

HE: “jny23 and Naome, don’t you think this beer’s too salty…does it remind you of anything?”

And they all fell for it, and talked at length about the composition of beer (all the while sipping it of course), and the joys of its consumption. And also the joys of the good life God has given each of us. And the need to make good use of the gift.

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The writer insists that this is how the things played out. If you disagree…well you disagree. Noticeably absent: Santosh, King, BAZ

But the thing, it was nice. Turn-up was nice, convo was good (esp that part about a certain presidency). Till next time. Great week.

PS: Photo respectfully nicked from here

Monday Massacres: Juicy Fruit

// January 25th, 2010 // 12 Comments » // Monday Massacres...Bollocks

This long lost stuff is brought to you by:

We saw pain the blogcks was putting this guy through. So we stepped in and saved him from that whore. She’s sleeping with every one in blogville. Whore. And so the year finally kicks off, here, on the wild side. Good reading. Also, drink our stuff. It unlocks packets of energy you never thought you had. Yes, you Carsozy.

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Lil Sleek always had his eyes on some juicy stuff in the neighbor’s compound. No, it wasn’t a girl. Let me point out that Lil Sleek actually had his eye on many girls. So many girls, he needed more eyes. But this isn’t about them. That juicy stuff in the neighbor’s compound was a guava tree. Lil Sleek had never seen any fruit that had made an impression on anyone like those guavas…that guava tree stood firm, and could be seen for a radius of 1 km. That or Lil Sleek’s sense of measurement was warped. But that had no bearing on Lil Sleek’s resolve to relieve that bewitching tree of some of its goodies…I can see girls reading this getting excited at that word; Goodies.

So, in preparation for operation ‘Juicy Fruit’, Lil’ Sleek insisted that mummy prepared chicken for lunch. And he ate it. Oh, so nice. Nyam, nyam.  Not that the chicken would in any way have an effect on his juicy quest, but the young man wanted to just get some. In those days, ‘getting some’ referred to eating home-made chicken. This quest for juice was too big for the young man to pull off on his own, so he wrote a note to Sly, his cunning buddy, and went to his window to call carrier pigeon to do the delivery. But carrier pigeon was out having quality time with his harem of birds. Pigeon pimp. No wonder the feathered one was always tired. You’d send him to deliver a note to Salama, telling her to come over since mummy and daddy were away, and the foul would only stop at Pallen’s, panting, spent. Late night’s partying, bird manners and beaking were getting to him; he’d have to be relieved of his duties.

Seeing no other option, Lil’ Sleek decided to consult Penelope, his cousin. This Penelope, she lived with those of Lil’ Sleek. And all day everyday, she stayed holed-up in her room, getting high on the only thing that gave her teenage life meaning; Mills and Boon. The few times she’d wander out of the room, like the one time her curtains caught fire, a glassy, far-away look in her eyes never left her, and she’d keep twiddling the flowers in her hair, long gone dry from lack of exposure to proper sunlight and lack of soil and all those things Lil’ Sleek had been taught in Science. As though preparing him for a lifetime of  farming. Not knowing that the lil one had his hopes set on being a poet. One who only performed at national celebrations; independence and the like.

The hero of our story approached Penelope’s room stealthily, for he knew that he’d require a whole lot of tact, and luck, to tear that teenage girl away from her Mills and Boon. Like all girls her age, she read those Mills things faster than they were produced. And she couldn’t re-read any of that stuff; even she couldn’t stoop that low. So she’d resorted to writing her own. Anything for a high. And then at school, between giggles, the girls would pat down their pink skirts (starting to bulge from nature taking its course in the chest area) and then after solemnly swearing en-mass, not to steal each others books, they’d exchange the litter, ahem, literature. And the giggling would start immediately as pages were turned. And they’d go on to fail in class. Those books killed a generation. They still walk among us, eyes heaven-cast, waiting for Hector, Ramon, Carlos to fall from the sky. To come on a horse. Yz, not ‘come’ in that way. Sick child.

Grown-up Sleek has run into some of these deluded girls. Screaming to get them to stop staring at the sky, he usually tells them, in a deep, roughshod sorta way, “Lady, (appropriate cowboy soundtrack playing in the background), Hector, Ramon and Carlos won’t fall from the sky, but Daddy Sleek has got you.”(Said while partially tearing shirt-off to reveal just enough chest hair to cause movement in female-chest area)

“Lady, I may not have….”

They usually walk past him at this point, eyes still heaven-cast.

Big digression there. As big as they come. Again Yz, not ‘come’ in that way. Back to the story.  So, Lil’ Sleek obviously had a grand task on his hands. Getting Penelope’s attention. All stops had to be pulled. Guavas needed to be got. These guavas would be his first conquest. But first, to get Penelope’s attention outta the Boon.So he reached for a frying pan…